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Zeb’s father, Floyd, had expressed little interest in the wedding after he found out there wouldn’t be a Velveeta fountain or a big screen showing the scheduled UK basketball game.
So, the reception was going to be fun. As much fun as one could have while dressed as Satan’s tea cozy.
The Naomi Harper bridesmaids’ dresses were a concession to the McClaine family tradition of renting formal wear from Jolene’s aunt Vonnie’s dress shop, the Bridal Barn. Vonnie made all of the dresses herself, using three patterns, all of which ended up looking like a circa 1982 pattern called “Ruffles and Dreams.”
“I know, Janie, I know it’s ugly,” Zeb said, his big doe eyes all guileless and earnest. Dang it, I always buckled under the baby browns. “It is the world’s ugliest dress. Of all the dresses you will ever wear, this is the one your body may reject like a faulty organ. As soon as I get back from the honeymoon, I will help you build the bonfire to burn this dress. But I’m asking you as my closest friend in the entire world, will you please just wear the stupid dress for one day? Without whining? Or describing it? Or making Jolene feel bad? Or pissing off Jolene’s cousins?”
“Any more conditions?” I grumbled.
“I reserve the right to make addendums,” he said, one sandy-blond brow arching its way up to curly hair of the same shade.
“What kind of kindergarten teacher talks like that?” I groused. Engagement had changed Zeb. He was more aggressive, more mature, partly from having to defend himself in life-threatening situations. Unfortunately, he was being more aggressive and mature with me, which sucked.
“What kind of children’s librarian takes a job at an occult bookstore?” he countered.
“Vampire.” I pointed to my chest. “And I’m not a librarian anymore. When they fire you, they kind of take the label, too.”
Zeb’s smile thinned as he blinked owlishly and pressed his fingers to his temples. He took a pill bottle out of his pocket.
“You OK?”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “I’ve just been getting these headaches lately.”
My pessimistic brain flashed on possibilities including clots and tumors. Batting down small flares of panic, I asked, “Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yeah. He said they’re probably stress-related.”
I poked a finger at the wedding binder. “I can’t imagine.”
“Wedding planning is stressful, even when you’re not marrying into a family with mouths full of fangs and guts full of burning hatred, both of which are aimed at you,” Zeb muttered as he dry-swallowed two Tylenol. “On a brighter note, where’s your ghostly roommate?”
“Out,” I said of my great-aunt Jettie, who had died about six months before I was turned and had been pleasantly haunting me ever since. “With my grandpa Fred again. They’re becoming quite the hot and heavy couple.”
“I didn’t realize ghosts roamed around so much,” he said. “Where do they go?”
“As long as it keeps me from seeing two deceased old people getting all touchy on my couch, I do not care.”
He grinned. “That’s so gross.”
“Tell me about it.” I grimaced. “I’m working extra shifts at the bookstore, unpaid, just to get out of the house. I keep walking into rooms and finding them … guuuuh. And speaking of the store, we need to table the dress negotiations for now. My shift starts in about an hour. We’re expecting some ancient Babylonian scrolls that Mr. Wainwright found on eBay, so he’s really excited. He thinks they may have been used in a summoning rite.”
“So, you purchased ancient Babylonian texts, which may or may not call forth Gozer the Destroyer, on eBay?” Zeb asked. He cocked his head and gave a goofy grin. “You know, a year ago, I would have thought you were kidding.”
I shrugged, pushing the dreaded bridesmaid’s dress photo from my considerable field of vision. “And yet …”
I scooped up the ringing phone, knowing before I pressed it to my ear that it would be my mother. I didn’t use my spiffy new mind-reading powers or anything. Mama called every night before my shift to make sure I was careful on the three-step walk from my car to the bookstore. She tended to “forget” that I now had superstrength and could twist any prospective mugger into a pretzel.
Mama had responded to my coming out as a vampire with the traditional stages of grief. She just got stuck at denial. She had decided to ignore it completely and pretend it away. She brought two frozen pot pies over to my house each week to “help me out with meals,” which was handy, because I needed something around to feed the ever-ravenous Jolene. Mama dropped by during the day, then got upset when the vampire “sleepy-time” instinct kept me from chatting. It was as if she thought I could change my mind about being a vampire and give back my membership card.
“I have some bad news, honey,” Mama said as I picked up the phone. She’d long since parted with the niceties of phone greetings. After a dramatic pause, she said, “Grandpa Bob passed last night.”
“Awww,” I moaned. “Another one?”
This may seem like a strange, even cold, reaction. But you have to understand my grandma Ruthie’s marital history. She’d been widowed four times, via milk truck, anaphylactic shock, spider bite, and lightning strike (the lamented, aforementioned Grandpa Fred). I wrote a poem titled “Grandpa’s in an Urn” in fifth grade. I had to spend a lot of time in the guidance counselor’s office after that.
I loved Bob. Despite not being my actual grandpa or even a step-grandpa yet, Bob had always been nice to me. But he was engaged to Grandma Ruthie for five years and had chronic conditions of the heart, lungs, and liver. He had survived longer than expected.
